


Sleepless nights, ruby sighs

by therickykitty



Series: The Wolf of Skyhold [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Samson is a protective wolf, just shmoop and fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 04:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3677490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therickykitty/pseuds/therickykitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson can't sleep. Takes place after the fiasco at Halamshiral, but before the trek into the Arbor Wilds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless nights, ruby sighs

“Vhenan…?”

Desya’s small query was like a book falling in their dimly lit room. Samson startled himself out of his ministrations, and slowly realized he’d been rubbing the smaller man’s chest. He sighed and silently admonished himself for waking the Inquisitor. Maker’s balls but he knew how exhausted the man was and just how much the Winter Palace had taken out of them both. Political intrigues and scandals had never been the old Templar’s forte, and his grousing and snarling had almost cost them a few connections that night, of which their Ambassador reminded him for the past week.

But he’d never meant to wake the poor thing up. Samson’s dull tow-colored eyes blearily scanned the room until they fell on the paned glass window Desya had installed and immediately groaned. Blast it, it wasn’t anywhere near dawn. He lazily slid his arm arms around the elf’s waist and chest and tugged him close to his body, groaning as he buried his face into his shoulder.

“Sorry, dove,” he muffled. “Didn’t mean t’wake ya.”

“Can’t sleep?” Desya sighed, almost purring as the commander’s warm hands gently rubbed circles around his heart and across his abdomen.

“All that blasted peacockery at…fucking Orlais, I swear.”

He felt the elf’s abdomen move and smirked as Desya huffed out a laugh. Samson gently placed a kiss at his nape and heaved out a weary sigh again.

“So much sighing, lethallin. Ma’fen, what is it?” Desya turned slightly and slid his hand into the Commander’s coarse hair, slowly rubbing his fingers through it. He mused to himself how much his lover’s hair resembled his namesake: so full, spindly and thick. As exhausted as he was, knowing Samson he had been overthinking the whole night. The elf immediately thought of a wolf pacing around in circles and couldn’t shake that image of him.

“We’re so close, so fucking close,” Samson huffed, “got the bastard cornered in some Maker forsaken jungle, and…and I won’t be with you. Leading the charge, and I can’t look over you.”

“Vhenan, you know I – “

“Sometimes I just want to say fuck it all, throw these orders back at Cullen’s fucking gob and have him lead the bloody invasion. Make him useful, for fuck’s sake.”

“Creators, but you are surly tonight.”

“Heh, I don’t remember you complaining earlier, cheeky dove.”

Desya laughed and repositioned himself to face the older wolf. “Not out loud, ma’vhenan.”

“As I recall, loud is your specialty, Lavellan.”

The elf rolled his eyes, unable to suppress the blush rising to his cheeks. “You’re always so lewd, lethallin. And you never say my name.” He watched Samson study him intensely, his breath hitching slightly when calloused hands trailed up his body and cupped his face. Samson leaned forward and kissed him with surprising passion, taking him off guard. Desya sighed and melted into it, lazily tracing his tongue against the Commander’s more experienced skill.

Samson parted from him and, with reverence, kissed the elf’s forehead. “We’re getting off-topic.”

“Mm,” Desya hummed, “it’s not fair. You humans never play fair.”

“Our specialty, sweet thing,” Samson chuckled. He reached up and threaded his fingers through Desya’s tresses, silently marveling at how like silver it shimmered in the moonlight. “I worry about you. I know I can be a right arse, but dammit if I don’t want to follow your motley crew every time you leave here. And now we finally tracked the demon responsible for this whole bloody shitstorm, and I can’t watch over you. It is agony.”

“Lethallin, you act like I’m going to trip and electrocute myself. I’m not the scared boy you met years ago. I can take care of myself.”

“Can’t blame this old wolf for worrying, right?” Samson grinned. He tugged the covers tightly around them both and rested his forehead against Desya’s, breathing in the air, the smell, everything about the other man. He was seeped in magic and herbs, lyrium, the very earth and woods all engulfing him in a compact, beautiful, limber creature. Samson sighed and buried his face in his hair: he was utterly intoxicated. At times he could feel the very air around the elf become light and crackle with energy, like as otherworldly as the sprite he first mistook him for.

“Lethallin, I’ll be alright,” Desya coaxed gently.

“If you take the Tevinter mage or that Qunari spy with you, I promise I’ll have their bloody balls for paper weights if even a fucking hair gets singed on you.”

At that moment - while his lover let out a peal so delightful he’d promised to ask Vivienne how to bottle it away - he prayed with a fervent intensity he didn’t even believe he possessed. The Maker had given him very few things in his life worth cherishing, and a slew of piss poor choices and rotten luck. But he swore if anything took the man in his arms away, he’d storm the fucking Golden City itself, and the Maker would tremble at his fury.

“I am yours, Desya Lavellan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Too sappy? Not enough sappiness?


End file.
